You Don't Live in Your House Yet? & Answers to Other Frequently Asked Questions

You don't live in your house yet?
No, I do not, in fact, live in the house yet.  No, nay, nope, nuh-uh.  Negatory, good buddy.  And even if you repeat the question in a different tone, the answer will still be the same.  Ditto if you add eyebrow raises and slack-jawed disbelief.

Why not?
Because I bought the house under the auspices that everything was hunky-dory when it was, in fact, not hunky-dory.  Just two weeks after signing my life away, my beloved Kudzu took ill.  And that lasted for four months before he passed away.  When he was sick, we couldn't move him.  After he died, we couldn't move me.

Wait.  You're saying you didn't move because of a cat?
Yes, yes, I am.  And if you so much as breathe the merest suggestion that this reason is not sufficient or reasonable or sane, we are no longer friends.

When did you buy the house?
 In February, the 26th of said month to be exact.  Before the whole world fell to pieces.

So how long has it been?
Six months and 6,574 questions

Where are you living?
I considered a number of options - there was the option to sleep under my desk since we do have a shower in the office (strange but true), but I discarded that idea, so I've remained in the household of my gracious, patient and very entertaining parents.

Are your parents upset?
Well, seeing as how they kept the autistic cat with no teeth who sometimes drools on the sofa and the feral cat that no one can touch who sometimes scratches the sofa, the fact that their youngest daughter who neither drools on nor shreds the sofa is still in residence is pretty much a-okay.

Isn't that expensive?
Why, yes, it is.  Especially when you discover that your toilet was left running, gushing up an $800 water bill.  Not to mention every month when I pay my mortgage, which, for the record, no anonymous benefactor has stepped forward to pay.  Interested parties should inquire within.

So is the house just empty?
No, actually, it's not.  It's a circa-1960 storage unit that now contains most of my cookware, two sofas, a television not hooked up to cable, and a stubrary full of books.

Do you have a target date in mind?
I, like the U.S. government, seem to be struggling a bit with my exit strategy.  I assure you that everything is going according to plan, and I see no reason that the operation cannot be completed within a reasonable time frame as soon an executable strategy is in place.  (So...no.)

What are you waiting for?
An Executive Order.  Divine intervention.  Planetary allignment.

Do you need help?
Psychiatric?  Yes.  What sort are you offering?

The Old, the Dead and the Hot as Blue Blazes: Day 3

If possible, the next morning was even hotter, as though Nashville gave up even pretending to fight the heat and just gave into the scorching inferno that swamped everything.  We decided to start the day on a high note by going to, um, the cemetery.  Call me morbid, but I love cemeteries.  I love the various shapes of headstones and the pithy sayings that play tribute to those who've passed - like the one pictured here - and the statuary that graces the particularly old ones, like the Nashville City Cemetery.  Our first challenge was to find the cemetery.  Funny, but the addresses for those sorts of things are not to be found in the visitor's guide.  We actually had to call the visitor's bureau to get an address for Mathilda, and even though the woman was very polite, I wondered if she thought us a bit bizarre.

Mom and I trudged through the mid-morning light, growing more clear and hot by the moment, while Dad trolled around in the van, stopping periodically to read his book.  I took 50 or 60 shots before I succumbed to the heat, thinking that I knew exactly how the Wicked Witch of the West felt as she melted.  My cheeks were blazing, the sweat rolling out of every pore, and any semblance of makeup I might've put on that morning was pooling somewhere along my collarbone.


The twenty-minute ride across town gave Mom and me time to return to an acceptable temperature below the blood-boiling point, so that we didn't collapse immediately on the lawn of the Belmont Mansion when we arrived.  Although it would've been a nice place to collapse, because Adelicia Hayes Franklin Acklen Cheatam liked statuary...a lot.  So we would've been in good company among gods and goddesses and some very sweet looking sleeping lions. Adelicia, often referred to as Tennessee's real Steel Magnolia, was a charming, pistol-toting millionairess who hollered "we want pre-nups" long before Kanye penned "Golddigger."  She married well the first time to a man roughly 30 years her senior and held onto her wealth through two more husbands and died, as all women dream of doing, while shopping in New York City. 

With one old home and a morning with the dead behind us, we left the Nashville city limits bound for The Hermitage, home of President Andrew Jackson and his wife Rachel who had no children but managed to have many people in their house over the years also named Andrew and Rachel.  It would really make historic house tours a lot easier if someone was just willing to go out on a limb with "Jeremy" and "Samantha."  I digress.

By the time we pulled into the parking lot at The Hermitage, it was truly hotter than the blue blazes.  The sun charmed serpents from the asphalt, and they wavered upwards coating us in incendiary heat.  We were told at the ticket window that I couldn't take in my camera bag because it might snag the old wallpaper.  So I trudged back across the parking lot, tossed my camera bag in the van and stashed my camera body and two lens in my purse, which made it weigh approximately 27 pounds.

Once inside, we watched a short film on Andrew Jackson, and I gotta say - that guy hired a good PR firm posthumously.  Reading between the lines, it sounds like the he was a bit of a jerk.  Granted, he lived a rough life, serving in the Revolutionary War at 13 and emerging from the conflict an orphan whose other siblings didn't survive the battle.  And while it's amazing that a man from such mean beginnings rose to the highest office in the country, the short film glossed over the early years of his marriage to Rachel when she was (OOPS!) married to two people at once.  It did, however, note the raucous nature of his inaugural ball which got so out of hand, he had to be escorted out the back of the White House by security.  Party in the U.S.A., indeed.

The museum held some interesting relics, including replicas of the garments worn by Rachel and Andrew to the ball held in New Orleans to celebrate victory in the War of 1812.  For the record, they were essentially Jack Sprat and his wife.  Andrew was 6'1" and weighed about 130 lbs., while Rachel stood just over 5' and weighed in around the same as her husband.

While contemplating that skinny men no longer give fat women a second glance, we made our way from the museum to the house.  The thick air barely moved as we cut through it, and within seconds sweat was omnipresent.   We waited outside for the next scheduled tour and chatted with the poor fellow robed in 18th century garb clear up to his neck.  It made me hotter just looking at him.

Once inside where the fine folks of The Hermitage thought well of keeping things all 1836-style except for the addition of A/C (thank heavens), we were treated to some very special Greek-themed wallpaper which was all the rage in Nashville, apparently, because it was at Belmont, too.  Also notable was that Andrew Jackson died at home in his bedroom that's pretty much just as he left it.  Except for the bedding which deteriorated and had to be replaced.  Thankfully, in 1998, the company that made the original was still in business and had the original order.  Kind of made me feel better about all the things I keep in case they come in handy a century or so later.

Like I noted with Belle Meade, it's the random little trivia facts that stick in my brain.  Like The Hermitage's smokehouse processed about 25,000 pounds of pork each year.  That's a whole lotta pig.  Also, while in office, President Jackson read 15 newspapers and kept them in giant leatherbound volumes.  The only other sitting president to read the newspaper so prolifically was JFK, an accomplished speed-reader.

All too soon it seemed, we were back outside again.  The disappointment was somewhat offset by the beauty of the gardens.  Apparently, Andrew hired a hoity-toity British landscape artist to create a classic English garden behind The Hermitage for his lady love.  It was here that Rachel and he are entombed.  She died just prior to his inauguration.  It's said he walked out to the monument every evening at sunset as long as he could do so.

At this point, with the headphones and digital recorder from the audio tour feeling like they weighed 10 pounds and my purse with the two camera lens weighing three times that, I could've happily departed from The Hermitage.  But Dad wanted to take the trek through the woods to get a better view of the farm land and the remains of the slave quarters, plus the added bonus of emerging from said woods into the backyard of the original Hermitage log cabin.  Oh joy.

Despite my protestations, there were a few very good things about this 2-mile path:
1) It ran alongside the creek fed by the spring whose water stayed at a constant 58 degrees.  Yes, I did dip my toes in presidential waters.
2) It was a wild experience in which we encountered this very brave rabbit who was totally unconcerned by our presence and a more cautious wild turkey
3) No one else was as stupid as us to want to plow through the woods with a 100-plus heat index, so we were blissfully alone

By the time we wended our way along the path, had close encounters of the animal-kind and sweated darn near every ounce of moisture left in our bodies, my plunge into the presidential crick was a distant memory.  So was my patience.  So was my enjoyment.  So was my desire to read all the little tiny signs inside the original Hermitage.  While Dad carried on with his headphones on listening to all manner of educational musings, I removed my headphones and digital recorder and threw them in the grass.  My purse hit the ground next and then my camera.  I took off the necklace I'd been wearing.  I was hot.  I was hot. IwashotomigoshIwashot.  Mom laughed at me while Dad continued his exploration of the archaeological findings and I continued my disenchantment with history, audio tours, presidents and the month of July.  "Dad," I said.  "It's a log cabin.  It's hot.  Let's go." 

As we trekked back to the museum - do you notice how much walking is involved in this blazing hot day??? - I contemplated how it must've looked then: wild with just the beginnings of civilization carved out.  This is me - hot and contemplative.

Dinner that evening was at Margot, a local-to-table restaurant with a rotating menu.  The homemade bread was to die for, and for dinner I had this refreshing red snapper in a corn salsa.  Mom, Dad and I split two desserts: a cherry clafloutis and chocolate mousse.  I could've had a gallon of the mousse.  And if I weren't trying to maintain what little dignity I had left with my sweaty hair plastered to my head and my makeup melted away, I would've licked the inside of the bowl.

We let Mathilda take us back to Carole's Yellow Cottage one more time.  One more time, we arrived crusted in salt, smelling slightly like yesterday's dirty socks and so desperate for a shower, we would've hosed off in the backyard.  And yet, we couldn't have possibly had more fun spending quality time with the old, the dead, and...well, let's be honest...I could've done without the hot as blue blazes.

The Old, the Dead and the Hot as Blue Blazes: Day 2

After a breakfast of waffles and fresh strawberries, we embarked on day two of the Nash-cation.  Mathilda guided us to Belle Meade Plantation, the great, great-granddaddy of American thoroughbred race horses.  Legendary champions like Seabiscuit, Secretariat and Smarty Jones can trace their bloodlines back to Belle Meade and the Hardings' prize-winning British stallion Bonnie Scott.  Lucky for us, we could still trace their scent in the air as we toured the carriage house and stables, which both felt to be in close proximity to the inferno.  Time outside: 25 minutes.  Pounds of water sweated: 25.  However, the exterior tour was not without merit, providing a glimpse at the reconstructed Victorian sleigh with super-funk looking lion detailing and a country coach that was essentially an 1800s Escalade.

We were welcomed to the house by a be-braced and freckled 14-year-old junior docent whose well-practiced speech and accompanying hand gestures made me want to hug him and suggest that he pursue a career as a flight attendant.  Particularly when he stepped between the front columns and pointed with both hands in unison, index finger and middle finger together, the bullet holes resulting from a Civil War skirmish (and serving as the emergency exit rows).  [Enlarge the picture to see the bullet wounds.]

The interior of the house reminded me a great deal of Oak Hill in its layout, although the furnishings were far more grand than Martha's well-worn divans and foyer table.  Plus, the Hardings were green before green was green, using methane gas from horse poop to light the interior.  At a low level, mind you, around 40 watts, so as not to get heavy handed with the air light but fresh.  The tour followed four generations of people who all seemed to have the same names - like wandering through Wuthering Heights, really.  I tend to only glom on to the bizarre and useless facts that stick like glue in my brain, including the doctor's recommendation that Selena Harding "exercise" her lungs by smoking to improve her asthma.  Umm, medical FAIL.

Back outside, I took photos (surprise!) and we made our way to the front lawn for the noon cannon demonstration.  A gentleman in period dress explained the duties of the four-man artillery unit, prepping a replica cannon that he noted was smaller than those used in Civil War combat.  Seeing as how I've never had the occasion to be in close proximity to a cannon firing, I thought I would take a very exciting picture of the gun exploding.  However, as a first-timer in close proximity to a cannon firing, I was completely unprepared for the tooth-rattling, soul-shaking, palpitation-causing BOOM that filled the air in what had to have been a square-mile radius.  A thick, almost tangible sound that nearly made me drop my camera and definitely made me drop my breath.  According to our guide, the average large-scale Civil War battle had nine of these big behemoths on either side of the line of scrimmage.  Forget gun fire - the mere sound of the cannon would've caused me to drop dead.

Following my near-death experience, we traveled southward to the suburban town of Franklin.  It came highly recommended from a number of people, and we were ripe for some indoor activity like antiquing.  The truth is, though, that we Harps aren't truly looking for antiques per se.  We're looking for old junk that we like.  Unfortunately for us, most of the shops in Franklin were a bit high in the instep for our tastes.  I mean, yes,  your little wooden side table is lovely.  But it isn't $300 lovely.  We paraded in and out of stores looking for some treasured trash to no avail.  Into the air conditioning in shops crowded elbow to elbow with people trying to escape Yhe Heat, which met you ever so politely on the sidewalk as soon as you departed.  Out of the frying pan and into the fire.  We made it up both sides of the main street this way, until the fluctuating temperature had me crying uncle.  It's entirely possible that we left the grandest Antiques Roadshow find in the world in Franklin, TN.  But it was that or I was going to puke on the sidewalk.

We opted to drive up the Natchez Trace Parkway for a piece.  Our visitors guide listed it as a scenic byway, and having traveled the Blueridge Parkway a number of times, we were all for scenic beauty viewed from the safety of our air conditioned minivan.  About fifteen miles down the parkway, Dad noted that the unending stretch of grassandtrees and treesandgrass didn't really afford all that much scenic delight.  But we also observed that we couldn't see another car, and after the time spent in close proximity to too many strangers in Franklin, a sort of bland abandoned stretch of road seemed just the ticket.

A sign on the right side of the road proclaimed a historic site ahead.  We dutifully turned off at the appointed marker.  Unfortunately, the site provided little in the way of sight.  A small rounded stone wall marked...well, I'm not even sure what.  It was thrilling, though.

On our way back down the trace and ready to declare Franklin a total wash, we decided to attempt to find something for dinner instead of heading back into the city.  We stopped at an antique store on the fringes of Franklin - the kind that looked like it could have some junk in it alongside the real-deal oldie goldies.  And it did.  After browsing as much as we could in our tired, disheveled state, we asked the proprietor for a dinner recommendation, which lead us to Saffire at The Factory at Franklin.

For whatever reason (perhaps because we wreaked of sweat?), they put us in the air-conditioned, windows-on-three-sides patio room.  All. by. ourselves.  Heaven.  I had a yellow tomato, mozzarella and basil salad, followed by shrimp and grits.  Dad also ordered shrimp and grits but started with a gumbo, for which he received this tiniest of tiny Tobasco bottles.  So cute!

And then...then there was dessert.  When you put something on a menu called "Chocolate Sin," just know that you might as well put my name down next to it.  Chocolate Sin did not disappoint - a warm, spongy, chocolate cake resting in a sweet creamy butter custard drawn through with a slight bit of raspberry puree and garnished with fresh real whipped cream and piece of almond brittle.  Are you drooling yet?  Because when you cut into the cake, a warm gooey rich chocolate pudding flows like molten decadence on your plate.  Instead of a calorie count, this dessert might ought to come with some Hail Marys.

And all of this was made even more enjoyable by the fact that the little theater in the same complex was featuring a production of Beauty & the Beast, so while we dined, we watched Lumiere, Cogsworth, Belle, and a horribly uncomfortable looking Mrs. Potts march too and fro pre-show.  It was like free dinner theater.  And we could heckle from behind the safety of glass.

The Old, The Dead and The Hot as Blue Blazes: Day 1

As a general rule, we Harps are not intrepid travelers.  Not a one of us has a passport, and the most exotic locations any of us has traveled is...Montana?  But every once in a great while, we load up the minivan and head to uncharted territory like...Nashville?

Mom, Dad and I headed northward on Thursday for a little escape from routine but certainly not from the heat because it pursued us clear across state lines.  We tootled down the snaking black asphalt, high up into the Georgia hills where we made our first stop just beyond where we lived when I was born.  Ostensibly, we were getting ice for the cooler.  But we left the grocery store with a four-piece pack of deli fried chicken that originated from the renowned operation of the Grand Poobah of Poultry himself, my dad.  It was our first taste of the of the kind of high life you live only on vacation: fried chicken enjoyed in classic Southern style on the blacktop parking lot of a Food Lion just over the Tennessee border.  That's how we roll, folks.

On our way again and trading the Peach State for the Tennessee hill country, Dad attempted to chart the location of old Highway 41 running alongside I-75 and pointed out from time to time locations of note.  For example, the overpass under which he picked up a hitchhiker in a sleet storm who sold him the Gibson Les Pauls off his back for bus fare - a tale in such long-standing that I half expected a bronzed thumb to be marking the site.  After much reminiscing about "Old 41," we exited onto that hallowed highway and continued our way upstate as Mom and Dad argued over whether Mom remembered the scenery - he said she did, and she said she didn't.

And soon our wild adventure made its second stop in Murfreesboro, home of Middle Tennessee State University, institution of matriculation for both of my parents and the blossoming beginning of their 40-plus year companionship.  This resulted in a lot of conjecturing about where they first met (was it the library?) and which dorm Mom lived in while they were dating (Felder?) and the revelation that they were in a cemetery when they first "got serious" about the topic of marriage.  Not to mention the story about Dad watching rich kids in a convertible drive through leaf piles one fall to the annoyance of him and his friend who solved the problem with a well placed concrete block in one pile of leaves.  In the (few) years since graduation, Murfreesboro has changed a fair piece, leading to a great deal of confusion over where local dives and hangouts were or would be if they were still standing.  And for the record, the City Cafe and Pastime Billards were, in fact, still in business.  Guess Dad left them well fortified.

Back on the highway, we pulled out Mathilda, a.k.a. my Garmin, and directed her to Carole's Yellow Cottage, where we would be staying.  Plans were to meet our gracious hostess around 5 o'clock.  Nascent travelers that we are, we forgot to account for the central time rollback and arrived at the house with a pink door(!) just ahead of the appointed time...Eastern Standard Time.  Did I mention the heat?  Well, we bravely parked the minivan, stashed Mathilda in the console and took a (sweltering, oppressive, sweaty) stroll around the block, admiring the historic homes and trying not to stand too close to one another.  When we finished our loop with 15 minutes to spare, we did the wise thing and parked it on the stoop hoping the wind didn't blow our fresh scents toward each other.

It wasn't too long before our hostess arrived to show us to our accommodations, which were made all the more wonderful by two sweet letters - A and C.  With all our treasures toted in and the perspiration dried from our brows (however briefly), we headed back out to continue our adventure with some local eats at the Rose Pepper.  Hello, fish tacos and delicious sangria.

Sated with libations and provisions, we let Mathilda direct us to Cheekwood Botanical Garden to view the exhibit by glass artist Dale Chihuly.  There's something about sangria that makes you say, "90 plus degrees outside?  Bah!  Staying indoors is for sissies!"  We trekked through the park after dark to view a dozen or so glass installations throughout the gardens.  I snapped pictures alongside others - and secretly scoffed at their iPhone attempts.  Until about halfway through when my camera bag was threatening to smother me with its non-breathable polyester surface, and then I wondered if the iPhone photogs were scoffing at me with my sweat-drenched shirt and ruddy cheeks, my hair stuck to my forehead and neck.  By the time we reached the car again, we were all in a state beyond sweaty in which we had become humidity itself.  I might've heard among Mathilda's instructions to turn right and exit left to "for the love of all that is decent, take a bath."

Perhaps this would be the dirtiest and sweatiest and most disgusting we would be.  Or not.  Day two's adventures include equal amounts if not more of sweat, plus horse breeding, cannon fire and desserts so good you'll need to repent afterward.

I Will Remember You, David

"I will remember you.  Will you remember me?  Don't let your life pass you by.  Weep not for the memories."  - Sarah McLachlan, "I Will Remember You"

Me and 200-some-odd fellow graduates sat in the humid high school gymnasium and listened to a group of our classmates sing this song at graduation.  Among the crowd, somewhere in the rows behind me, sat my friend David Nudelman.

Never was there a more unlikely pairing than David and me.  David was notorious by the end of first grade for his chip-on-the-shoulder attitude, so when he and I ended up in the same class in second grade, no one would ever have guessed that the always attentive and obedient Ashley Harp would befriend the rebel without a cause.  But I was wearing a patch over my right eye at the time for muscle therapy.  David would later tell me that the eye patch was what drew him to me.  I suppose I looked a little rogue with one eye covered.

David continued to make a name for himself as a brash and brilliant troublemaker, and I followed my path of crossed t's and dotted i's and citizenship certificates.  Whenever our paths crossed, we were once again good friends.  I rather admired his rule-breaking ways, vicariously thrilled by behavior I would never engage in myself.  And I think he rather begrudgingly thought well of my overachieving decorum.

Despite his reputation as a disruptive force, David also was well known as a keenly intelligent student.  Those teachers who managed to develop a rapport with him and harness his restless energy were, I think, astounded by his abilities.  If David failed to do well, it had nothing to do with aptitude and everything to do with attitude.

When life became a little bit more hardscrabble than he could handle somewhere in the middle of high school, he landed a stint in a detention center.  I wrote him letters filled with all the inane goings-on of classes and football games.  He wrote me, too, with a confiscated pencil on ruled notebook paper in the middle of the night.  I still have those letters.

I remember sitting behind David in biology.  I remember his band's performance at the high school variety show that was cut short by a surprising f-bomb (and the ensuing cries of, "Cut the mic!!  Cut the mic!!).   I remember David's handwriting and his voice.  I remember his freckles.  And his hugs.

Since high school, David and I have been in spotty contact.  A couple of chance encounters.  E-mails here and there.  And then the comment now and again on Facebook posts.  But the lessened contact didn't lessen the affection.  The special place in my heart for the bad boy with the wicked wit who made me laugh and loved me even when I was super awkward and believed in me when I wasn't sure how to believe in myself.

***

"I'm so tired but I can't sleep.  Standing on the edge of something much too deep.  It's funny how we feel so much but cannot say a word.  We are screaming inside, oh, but we can't be heard." -Sarah McLachlan, "I Will Remember You"

When I heard last week that he was gone, as soon as I absorbed it, I knew it was true.  Like I told a mutual friend, he was a force to be reckoned to with.  And that force was gone.

I drove home from Atlanta with tears streaming down my face and an ache in my heart.  Such brilliance.  Such charisma.  Such a loss.

I dug out my old annuals and found where he signed in each one.  The year that he went away and we wrote letters, he wrote in my yearbook: "I love you so much, and I will always be there for you, and I know that you will always be there for me."

I wish he'd still believed that last week.  I wish that he'd called me or written me a letter.  I wish I had known that things were grim.  I wish that I could give him a great, rib-crushing hug and sort it out with him.

David, my friend, my unlikely dear friend, is gone.  But not forgotten.  I will remember him and what I learned from him about the great joy that comes from the love you find in unexpected places.

Peace and Godspeed, David.